Pyrolysis
by Garrae
Summary: Pyrolysis: the application of intense heat to burn off impurity. Or in this case, to cause impurity. One-shot fluff.


**Pyrolysis**

**This is for DX2012, with whom I was chatting when they said "The Caskett Companion to Oven-cleaning". So it's not my fault. Really. Well. The oven is not my fault. The rest… okay, guilty.**

* * *

"What are you doing, Castle?"

"Inspecting your oven."

"Why?"

"I wanted to see if it had ever been used." He turns round very fast and then smiles evilly. "I'm astonished, Beckett."

"Why?"

"It has been used. Oh – and because you were just checking me out."

"I was not." She is not blushing. She isn't. Because she wasn't checking out Castle. Or his excellent ass. Honestly. Though it's a very fine piece of male anatomy – hang on, that is _not_ how she's supposed to be thinking. Castle quirks a very disbelieving eyebrow at her and smiles smugly.

"Can you really cook, Beckett?"

"Yes," she says crossly. "Of course I can."

"Hmmm. When?"

"Any time I like."

"When did you last cook?" She's stymied. She can't actually remember.

"Why'd you ask?"

"Just wondered. It looks like there's mice nesting in your oven. You should clean it."

"Mice?" she squeaks. She doesn't like mice. Never has. She had to take the class hamster home one time in grade school and she didn't like that much either. Nor did her mom, when her dad put it in his shirt pocket and it woffled its nose out of it and then leapt on to the dinner table and got into the sugar bowl. Her dad spent the next week in the doghouse, and it took him an hour to recapture the hamster. Beckett hadn't helped him at all. She'd shut her bedroom door and stuffed the gap with towels.

"Mice," says Castle, smirking. "Don't tell me that Badass Beckett is scared of a teeny-weeny mouse. Is that why you sleep with a gun? To shoot the mice?"

"No," she growls, and glares to prove it.

"So come here and see." She stomps over and bends to look into the oven.

"I don't see any mice – _what the hell are you doing_?" His hand has skated over the small of her back and is currently advancing on the nape of her neck.

"Showing you the mouse nest."

"I can see just fine without you pushing me around. And it is _not_ a mouse nest."

"Ooops," says Castle wholly unrepentantly. "Sorry. You were looking in the wrong direction. See?" He catches her chin and turns her head. "There it is."

There is indeed a very small pile of something in the inner corner of the oven. Beckett regards it with deep suspicion and not a little nervousness. She stretches out a very tentative finger and prods it. No small squeaking rodents emerge, to her considerable and very ill-concealed relief.

"It's not a mouse nest. So there."

"You should look more closely."

"Castle, mice live in cracks in the wainscoting. Not in my oven." She cringes. "And there are no mice in my apartment. None."

She jumps and squeaks and then whips round to glare at him. "Was that you?"

"Me?" He looks unwarrantedly innocent. "What was me?" He peers at the buttons on her oven.

"Was that you walking your fingers up my spine? Because I will remind you that I have a gun."

"Certainly not." He smirks. "Must have been a mouse." Beckett shivers and wriggles.

"You know, you could clean this."

"What are you talking about?" There's another tickle up her spine. She flips round again. Same innocent expression… except there's a wicked look in his big blue eyes.

"Clean it." Beckett looks blank. "See this button?"

"No. Because you are standing in the way. Move, Castle." She shoves him, ungently.

He shifts sideways a very tiny amount, so that she can peer round him at the button. When she does so, he moves a carefully calculated distance further and around.

"What about the button? Why do I need to know about this button?" She's managed this long without the button, whatever it is. Then again, since she might have used the oven – ooohhh, ten times in two years? – investigating oven buttons of no immediate utility has not exactly been top of her to-do list either. Keeping her annoying shadow out of trouble, even when she doesn't want to, has been slightly higher. Possibly.

She stands up and discovers that Castle is far too close.

"The button will clean your oven. All by itself." He stretches past her and closes the oven door. Somehow she's leaning back against the counter next to the oven with his arms on either side of her. This is not the plan. This is very definitely not at all the plan. Especially not since his head is descending towards hers.

She tells herself she's wholly thankful when his head continues past her and his eyes squint at the button. The faster thrumming of her pulse has absolutely nothing to do with her errant, ridiculous thought that he was going to kiss her. Nothing at all. Of course he wasn't. That would be amazing – No! It would be ridiculous.

"If I just twist this and push the button, in an hour or so your oven will be all clean." He grins evilly. "No mouse nest."

"It is _not_ a mouse nest. There are _no mice_ in my apartment."

Castle pushes the button. "Are you absolutely sure about that, Beckett?" His gaze drifts away from her and starts tracking something.

"What are you looking at?"

His gaze snaps back to her, and then back to the previous focus. "Oh, nothing." But he's not paying attention to her at all. His arms haven't left, either. In fact, she thinks that they might have got closer. That's got to be wrong. She tries to peer past him to see what he's watching.

"What is it?" she snaps.

"Nothing. I thought I saw something move, but since you're so adamant there are no mice I must have been wrong." Beckett shudders. "It's just that I'm sure I saw something." He pauses. "Maybe it was a rat."

"There are no rats, either," Beckett says, with rigid control to avoid a betraying tremor and squeak. "None. You're just trying to wind me up. And" – she suddenly realises that her oven is on – "what have you just done to my oven?"

He turns back round to face her, and smiles happily and very annoyingly. "Switched it on to clean, Beckett." Somehow he's closer. A moment ago there had been several inches between them. Now it's down to an inch. "It'll take a moment or two to start heating up, once it's turned on." His voice has dropped into a deep, suggestive tone that trickles downward from her ears. The smile has changed from happily annoying to dangerously seductive. "It's amazing, how fast matters can heat up when the right buttons are pressed." And now there is no space at all between them and she's pinned against the counter within his arms and body.

"You just need to know what buttons to press." He's pressing one hand to the back of her neck, fingers sliding through her hair. "What setting to choose." She wouldn't have chosen a kitchen… _what_? "The right timing." This is not the right timing. It's not – ohhhh. Maybe it is. His mouth descends on to hers and suddenly it's absolutely the right timing.

He nibbles enticingly on her lip and coaxes her into opening under him and suddenly the thermostat is rising: coaxing becomes command and enticement wholly erotic. The hand in her hair holds her head in place, the other arm locks around her so that she's tattooed across him and one hard thigh parts her legs and presses – _ohhh_ – her buttons. As it were. She melts against him. It's getting very hot in her kitchen. Must be the oven. Nothing to do with the force and power and passion in Castle's mouth and hands. Nothing at all. Certainly not because of the way he's kissing her. Or the way she's kissing him, which is only a natural, instinctive reaction to being kissed by him.

Same as gripping his shoulders is a natural reaction, as is pressing against the hard muscle of his thigh. But she's still far too hot. Being next to the oven is a bad idea. They should move elsewhere. Maybe then she'd have a chance to cool down. Or he could simply carry on unbuttoning her shirt. She'd be cooler without clothing – _what_? _Unbuttoning her shirt_? _What is he doing_? What, more to the point, is _she_ doing? The heat from the oven is frying her brain.

Oh. She's being moved. Phew. They can both cool down and stop this ridiculous game. Just because the oven is heating up doesn't mean that she is. No. Not at all. It's much cooler over here by the couch.

At least, it should be much cooler over by the couch. She's perfectly certain that it would be if it wasn't for Castle's mouth on hers and tongue invading with no consideration of her feelings whatsoever and he certainly didn't wait for permission and that is just _not acceptable_ but somehow she is neither arguing nor shooting him nor pushing him away. In fact, she seems to be pulling him closer, which is doing nothing for her rising temperature. Maybe she's ill. Maybe it's the oven getting even hotter. That's Castle's fault, too. Her oven didn't need cleaning, and it certainly didn't have mice. Whatever that _stuff_ in its corner was. She wouldn't put it past Castle to try to prank her by putting it there himself. Well, she wasn't fooled.

The thought of mice makes her shiver. Castle – of course – wholly misinterprets her shiver and moves his kisses round to under her ear, which only makes her wriggle more. She's still far too hot, despite her now-open shirt. If he would just _let go_ and stop pressing her into him in that ridiculously forceful fashion she'd get a chance to cool off. On the other hand, he might stop kissing her. Hmmm. Dilemma.

The dilemma is removed from her when Castle murmurs happily in her ear. "This is a nice way to pass the time. Much better than scrubbing your oven with horrible-smelling chemicals. It would ruin your fingers, Beckett. You'd have rough edges, and they'd scratch my delicate skin."

She splutters, wordless. Castle takes shameless advantage and kisses her again before she manages to emit any of the wrathful stream of words building in her head; and then takes further advantage by sliding his – very smooth, it has to be admitted – fingers under her shirt and over her back. "See, Beckett, _my _hands are kept in perfect condition by avoiding harsh chemicals and rough work such as oven cleaning. If you need some, I'll lend you my hand lotion."

She splutters some more. The effect of her splutter – none – is not improved at all by her arching into Castle's wandering hands. He had no right to show off the softness of his skin by sneaking his fingertips round to the edge of her bra and playing with it. It's entirely unreasonable and unfair. Anyway, her hands may not be quite as soft as the adverts would like her to have them – that would be the callouses from firing a gun, then – but she certainly doesn't have rough edges. Sharp nails, now… yes. That'll teach him not to make rude comments about her hands. Or her oven, for that matter. She reaches up under his mysteriously open shirt – how did that happen? It surely had nothing to do with her – and finds a pair of well-muscled shoulders on which to prove her point.

Oh. That backfired. Seems like that acted as an invitation, not a rebuke. How come she's sprawled across his lap and her shirt is now on the floor? And she is _still_ far too hot and whose stupid idea was switching the oven on in mid-July anyway? At least Castle isn't talking about ovens or cleaning or – ugh – mice or any other form of rodent life any more. Oh. That would be because he's using his mouth for other things. Nibbling her bra, for a start – _ohhh_ – but definitely not for a finish because _that_ – _ooohhh_ – involved a lot more mouth and tongue than a nibble and – _ohhh_ – he really doesn't object to her hands, does he? She applies said hands to making sure that his mouth doesn't move, and once it becomes clear that said mouth wasn't intending to move, applies her mysteriously reduced dexterity to ensuring that his shirt is also on the floor. If she's too hot, so must he be.

She's still overheating. Even though the next layer that could be removed is her skin. She's far too hot, and it's all the fault of that damn oven and Castle's idiot idea to clean it in the height of summer. She can't take off any more clothes. Nor can Castle, and he's giving off enough heat to steam clean her entire apartment. They can't get further from the oven, because it's at the other end of the apartment from her bedroom. If he'd only stop teasing her like that she might cool down. She'd always thought that being wet _did_ cool you down. Evaporation, or something like that. It really isn't working.

There is one thing she can do, though. Clearly being underneath Castle will not allow her to cool off – _ohhh_, that is _not_ helping her think, but _ohhh_ it feels so good. She should be on top. She exerts some unexpected pressure and a variant on a judo throw and ends up with Castle on the bottom and herself on top. That's better. It's definitely cooler up here. Well, it would be, if she hadn't just been flipped again. And this time Castle's holding her hands above her head in one of his, while leaning on that elbow, and smirking hotly at her and that is just so – _ohhh_ he shouldn't move like that – unfair. He's got no right to use his size and weight against her like that – _ohhh_ but she'll take _that_ form of size and weight against her. Or within her. Or both.

She suddenly squeals and wriggles.

"What's wrong, Beckett?"

"You tickled me!" She squeals again as a delicate touch trips over her ribs and a viciously ticklish area around her waist. "Stoppit!" She flails helplessly at him. It doesn't achieve anything at all except him lying over her and dropping dirty little kisses over anywhere he can reach.

"It's not me, Beckett. Must be the mice."

She glares up at him. "There are _no mice_. It's you – _ooohhhhh_." She stops, owing to a lack of breath and brain function. There is no way that was a mouse. A mouse certainly couldn't have fitted itself _there_. It would have been squashed flat. Uggghhhh. Castle's wicked fingers, on the other hand… _ooohhhh_. "That is not a mouse. That's you…_ooohhhhh_."

Castle sniggers. "Are you sure?" His fingers move again. She is positive it's Castle's fingers which are moving. Apart from anything else, she is sure that a mouse couldn't be so naughtily effective and well-placed – _ooohhh_. Actually, the hell with whether it's Castle or a mouse. Just don't stop, whichever it is. Just keep tip-tapping over her and _oh yes_ he can keep sliding like that for some considerable time and _please don't stop Castle_ and_ now Beckett yes Beckett_ and _yessssss!_

There's a strange beeping noise trying to drag her out of her satisfied semi-coma. Oh. It's the oven. It must be finished. Maybe she'll get to cool down now.

Then again, maybe not. Those damn imaginary mice are trickling over her and she is _sure _that Castle invented mice just to have an excuse to do _that oh god ohhh god do it again_ and thinking is completely lost.

Some time later she extricates herself from a tangle of Castle and sheets and pillows, throws on a very light robe and pads to the kitchen. The oven appears to be clean. Her mouth quirks very naughtily. Castle appears to like cleaning.

"Castle?"

"Uh?" She wanders back in the direction of the grunt.

"You like cleaning things up?"

"Huh?"

"I've got something else that needs cleaning up." She tugs him up and out of her bed.

"Huh?" he says rather plaintively, following along behind her. Not that he has much choice.

"I think I should get a cleaning service for it. Daily." He doesn't get it till she switches on the shower and drops her robe.

Cleaning is so much more fun with two.

* * *

_So a short fluff piece to make up for all the angst that the longer stories have. Always love to hear your thoughts. _

_Anyone complaining about oven cleaning, as I said at the start, this is all DX2012's fault. That's the story I'm sticking to. They get all the credit for the idea, if credit there should be._


End file.
